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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27424996">And then a Plank in Reason, broke</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowhere_blake/pseuds/nowhere_blake'>nowhere_blake</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(a very triggering topic nowadays), (also potentially triggering), 2020 US Presidential Election, ACAB, American Politics, Black Lives Matter, Cooking is Dean Winchester's Love Language, Dean Winchester Cooks, Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester are Jack Kline's Parents, Discussion of Voter Fraud, Election Fluff, Fluff, Good Cook Dean Winchester, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, I swear the tags make this seem very heavy but it's actually really fluffy, M/M, Mention of George Bush, Misha tweeted some stuff and I couldn't stop myself, Patriotism, Racism, Sam and Dean can't vote legally so they do the next best thing, September 11 Attacks, Sibling Incest, is election fluff a thing? because this is, there is also:, this fic is proof I watch too much Aaron Sorkin, this is like an actual ode to democracy or something, this is the most star-spangled goddamn thing I have ever written in my life</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 00:07:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,125</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27424996</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowhere_blake/pseuds/nowhere_blake</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>They spend the four hour drive to Kansas City with Sam trying to explain the electoral college to Jack, as Dean passive aggressively raises the volume on Led Zeppelin higher and higher.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>47</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>And then a Plank in Reason, broke</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Um, okay, so you know how <a href="https://twitter.com/mishacollins/status/1319486886809751553">Kripke said Sam and Dean would vote for Joe Biden, and then Misha chimed in saying that’d be pretty illegal?</a> I kind of wrote a thing about it. It’s also about 9/11 and the Winchesters' own, strange flavour of patriotism, and how Dean’s love language is making food for people. Trump supporters very much not welcome here.</p><p>Title from an Emily Dickinson poem, because she's amazing and I love her, and because she loves writing depressing shit about Death and going insane, which is how I currently feel about America, despite not being American.</p><p>Edit: Okay, so Maths is very clearly not my strong suit, I posted this like a week ago and just realised that I'm off by a year. (Not even sure what happened, I was also off by like 2 months, but I fixed that now, like how did I forget the show starts on Halloween, just wow. Not my finest hour.) Ugh. Yep. So Sam did actually vote in the 2004 elections (because come on, lawyer boy would be delighted to have the chance to be "normal".) Please ignore that. I'm shit at Maths, semi-decent at writing, and godawful at Americanising my spelling. So like. I'm sorry for all that. Hope you enjoy 🤷♀️</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The fall finds them in the Midwest, travelling through towns they've never been to, but Sam thinks are too familiar for them to have not visited before. The road is wearing him a little thin; they haven’t been back to the Bunker in weeks. He's not sleeping well. He misses Dean’s home-cooking.</p><p>He watches the riots and protests on staticky motel TVs with a kind of numbness, like they were news reports of violence in a far away country, happening to people oceans and universes away. He knows America like the back of his hand, his mind can map out roads and accents and the color of every season in every state, as if it were all a part of him. And yet, it strangely feels like America never belonged to him. He's almost convinced he doesn’t live in the America politicians praise to absurdity, journalists talk endlessly in circles about on TV. It’s a country that feels strange to Sam, a place he’s been to before - his four years of lost summer, in the Californian sun, chasing dreams - but where he never quite belonged.</p><p>He never voted before. Jess found his excitement about merely registering adorable, and she indulged him in his childish awe of democracy, chalked it up to it being the first time he was of age. He was going to. Vote, that is. It didn’t matter his vote would be just a drop in the vastness of California's decades-blue ocean, it didn’t matter if the incumbent Republican president would win again. He was determined to be a part of something then, share a feeling with millions of people who called this country their home. Except for how he never did vote. The week of the election he got dragged back to where he <em>did</em> belong; the dusty roads of highways, a life of not quite existing, but making a difference none the less. He can’t remember exactly where they were on the exact day, what state, what town. He felt empty and raw. Didn't care about democracy. Blinded by grief for Jess, plagued by a bittersweet happiness because of finally having Dean back, having him all to himself. Anxious, but equally relieved for his dad’s absence. He barely registered the news when Dean told him, almost missed the approval shining in his brother’s eyes.</p><p>‘He’ll show those sons of bitches that you can’t attack America like that,’ Dean had said, and Sam felt too exhausted to argue, knowing none of his reasoning against war would amount to anything in the face of Dean’s conviction.</p><p>And besides, it’s not like he didn’t still remember trying to reach Dean on the phone frantically, emotion wiping out all his logic, imagining him under rubble, bleeding and alone, despite the fact Dad usually made them avoid big metropolitan areas, and Dean had no reason to be there.</p><p>His fingers sweaty, slipping against the buttons of his phone, he was dialling blind, unable to take his eyes off the small TV in the student lounge, watching the first tower collapse. The girls from across the corridor were crying in a corner. Brady was shaking in disbelief next to him. Just past 8 in the morning in Palo Alto. They woke up to a different world.</p><p>He had to try Dean at least five times until he could get a line, and it took him years to realize that meant they were on the East Coast at the time - the only place across the country the phone lines actually went down.</p><p>‘We’re okay. We’re okay, Sammy. Nowhere near New York, we’re okay,’ came Dean’s shaky, but familiar voice on the phone once he finally reached him, and after the three weeks of hurt silence and uncertainty that followed their goodbye, his words almost had him collapse in relief and want.</p><p> </p><p>Things have changed since then. Sam’s America - often numb and colorless, made up of identical motel rooms and the yellow lines of highways blurring into each other, with glimpses of Hell in-between - and the <em>people’s America</em> have started to bleed into each other. No matter where they go now, how many state lines they cross, how far they get from the Bunker, it’s the same everywhere. People spouting the same hurtful words, the same nonsensical lies they’ve been fed by the manipulative, by the power-hungry. Sam has trained himself to let things go, to focus on the real monsters, on saving lives. It’s what they’ve always done. What they'll always do.</p><p>Except for how it's harder to ignore now. Except for how Dean almost broke some snooty college kid's nose two weeks ago in Wyoming after calling someone a faggot, how Dean had to hold Sam back so he didn’t go after some redneck using the N word in Georgia last year.</p><p>The case in Minnesota is different though.</p><p>‘We should just let them fucking die,’ Dean pants angrily, the moonlight catching his face at an odd angle in the darkness of the cemetery. Sam stares at him, stops digging. Their eyes meet. Sam raises an eyebrow.</p><p>‘We should,’ Dean continues, looking away, shovelling dirt in a punishing rhythm. ‘Every single racist son of a bitch this ghost killed deserved it.’</p><p>Sam considers this, thoughtfully runs his fingers over his shovel's grip. ‘It’s not our call who does and doesn't deserve to die,’ he says quietly.</p><p>Dean stops his work now too, straightens up, tension in his shoulders. ‘Is it not?’ he says so loudly, and with such force, that Sam has the urge to squint around wearily. ‘It sure as hell seems to be our call who deserves to live or die when it’s a "friendly monster". It sure as hell seems to be our call when we choose what case is serious enough to go after. It sure as fucking hell seems to be our call when we sacrifice ourselves for each other.’</p><p>Sam rolls his eyes, looks away. ‘That’s different. This is a vengeful spirit, Dean. Murdering people.’</p><p>Dean snorts. ‘<em> People </em>… You mean, racist fucking police,' he corrects.</p><p>‘They didn’t have a fair-’</p><p>‘Don’t tell me you still believe in that crap. That everyone deserves a fair trial. That the system <em> works </em> . You should know that better than anyone. The system doesn’t work, <em>lawyer boy</em>. Just look at the news. Just look outside. Innocent people are dying. Where is the justice in that? Where was <em> their </em> fair trial?’</p><p>‘I know, Dean, <em> I know </em> . But...' Sam takes a deep breath, his teenage debate champion coming out. 'We can’t just go around deciding who dies and who doesn’t. You might be right about <em>these</em> people, but what if you make a mistake next time? There needs to be a system. It doesn’t work otherwise.’</p><p>Dean shakes his head, huffs in disagreement. ‘I say, these asshats got what was coming to them. And I sure as hell am not happy about having to put an end to it.’ He turns away to swipe at his brow. His body language clearly says he considers the argument finished. Sam leaves it. It wouldn't lead anywhere. They got better at disagreeing over the years.</p><p>‘Not much we can do about it, anyway,’ Dean says gruffly as an afterthought, with his back to Sam.</p><p>A pause. And then, ‘We could vote,’ Sam suggests before he could think the words through.</p><p>Dean stops digging again. Turns to Sam in disbelief. Then laughs, loud and hearty. ‘With which fake ID? All of them? Prove him right about voter fraud? We don’t even pay taxes, Sam. Besides, last I checked, I was supposed to be dead.’</p><p>Sam is grateful for the dark, feels embarrassment creep up red and hot towards his cheeks. ‘Forget it, it’s stupid,’ he mumbles, feeling like a child.</p><p>Dean’s face softens then; his mouth does that complicated big brother thing. ‘It’s not <em> stupid </em> . We could… We could do something else. We <em> should </em>do something else.’</p><p>Sam doesn’t ask him to elaborate, just watches his brother stare into the flames thoughtfully once they finally reach and light up the coffin.</p><p>They walk back to the car in companionable silence. They sleep in separate beds that night, something they don’t often do on the road. It’s different in the Bunker, where they each have their own space - a luxury that still seems a privilege - but here in a dingy motel room, that could just as easily be in Alaska or North Carolina, Sam’s not used to it. They grew up in these American motel rooms, entangled in each other and scratchy sheets just like these, but there is a gap between them tonight - not a chasm, nothing deep - just a thoughtful quiet that seems so heavy with their thoughts, even a single touch between them would be too much.</p><p>Sam sleeps uneasy, and come morning he pretends he can't remember what his nightmares were about. Dean seems cheerful enough though, a whole day of driving ahead of him, which he seems excited about. They brush their teeth side by side at the tiny motel sink, and after they both finish, he pecks Sam on the mouth. He smells like aftershave and Sam's shampoo.</p><p>Sam stares after him, amused by the unusual show of casual affection.</p><p>'You're in a good mood today,' he can't help but comment, as he watches him saunter out of the bathroom and start throwing things randomly into a duffel. 'Did you get laid or something?' he teases, the words mostly meaningless and unserious.</p><p>Dean shoots him a dirty look from the other end of the room. 'Oh, you'd <em>know</em> about it if I did,' he says suggestively. Sam chokes on his mouthwash.</p><p> </p><p>Sam barely notices the passing of the weeks - there is always an Apocalypse looming, <em> another one and another one </em>- and then Sam wakes early on a Tuesday morning, and finds Dean and Jack already up and busy in the kitchen.</p><p>‘Nice of you to join us, Sleeping Beauty,’ Dean says, not even looking at him. Sam blinks surprised, looks at Jack who is sitting on top of the counter, watching Dean flip pancakes with a mixture of awe and wild elation.</p><p>‘What is… What's happening?’ Sam asks finally, eyeing the stacks upon stacks of takeout containers, taking up most of their kitchen table.</p><p>‘Happy Election Day, Sam!’ Jack says excitedly, in lieu of an explanation. Dean grunts at him then, which must mean a pancake is ready, and Sam watches as Jack obediently opens up a takeout container and holds it out for Dean.</p><p>‘Are we expecting guests or something?’ Sam asks, still confused.</p><p>‘Well, we can’t vote ourselves. Doesn’t mean we can’t help others do it,’ Dean says with pretend-nonchalance, turning around and wiping his fingers on his apron. His eyes have an expectant shine to them Sam hasn’t seen in a long time.</p><p>‘I-’ Sam tries, but he chokes up. His face must say it all though, because Dean just waves him off, like he <em>knows</em>. Sam can feel Jack's eyes dart back and forth between them curiously.</p><p>‘Come on. You're on syrup duty,’ Dean says to him, and Sam gets to work.</p><p>They spend the four hour drive to Kansas City with Sam trying to explain the electoral college to Jack, as Dean passive aggressively raises the volume on Led Zeppelin higher and higher. While at first Sam assumed their destination was Kansas City because of the expected higher blue turnout there, it turns out Dean has done his homework about waiting times. As he parks the Impala with an almost smug little flourish, Jack and Sam stare at the long line, astonished. The line of people waiting to vote wraps around the corner, then disappears into the distance.</p><p>‘Come on, we can’t let all these people starve,’ Dean shouts from the back of the car, trying to stack as many food containers into his hands as he can. ‘When we run out of the pancakes, we can use one of Charlie’s cards and play pizza delivery. Cannot let democracy go hungry after all!’</p><p>Sam stares at him a little incredulously. Their eyes meet and a little high-pitched laugh startles out of him. Dean can still surprise him sometimes.</p><p>The grateful smile of the first person Sam hands a stack of pancakes to makes him feel like maybe he does belong here. After all, these are the people he fights monsters for, sacrificed his soul and life for. Born cursed, demon blood running through his veins, making him more a child of Hell than anywhere else, all the while, a frequent visitor of Heaven, friends with an angel. And yet, this is where he is from. This is his country. And damn him if he won’t fight for it - any way he can.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>By the way, Castiel is not present here, because this little family road trip would make him very happy. (He loves to see Dean cook, and watch Jack when he's focused in on Sam's explanations, aching for knowledge, and he's very amused by stupid human things, like elections, but also strangely fascinated by the concept of democracy.) And then he’d die. Which isn't happening. Not on my watch.</p><p>hope you enjoyed, say hi on tumblr if you want <a href="https://princessconsuelapark.tumblr.com/"> @princessconsuelapark</a> 💕</p><p>buy me a <a href="https://www.buymeacoffee.com/nowhereblake">coffee</a> if you feel like ☕</p></blockquote></div></div>
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